Chapter 4
Baruch Medical
Research Center
Ramat Gan, Israel
Dvir Gottlieb’s world was black. It was the dark side of the moon, the center of the earth, the deep belly of starless space. It was here. It was nowhere. It was dreamless and unbroken, eternity on all sides. When his brain did flicker he had the odd sensation of floating, of not knowing his own person, the weight of his being. There was not a sound. He first imagined that he had somehow died and passed into the weird emptiness of oblivion. With wakefulness prodding his neural pathways, images came to mind, snapshots that were, at first…confusing.
Too-bright stare of the sun…black-robed arm…bearded smile…door sliding open…smother of rag on his face. Gottlieb gasped at this last image and the inrush of air felt forced and shallow, like the breath of one close to death. He was now aware that his ankle ached, which told him he must still be alive.
Dimly, slowly, he was alerted to other sensations. He could not see, though several blinks convinced him that his eyes were open. He seemed, improbably, weightless and floating, his wrists bound between and to his ankles. His scrotum was lifted free and he knew that he was naked. The effect was fetal and womb-like. He wished, with a sudden and desperate urge, to be born again. His awareness took great strides toward full consciousness. Hunger but no thirst. A great, growing itch swarming his body, like a march of red ants on forage. He wriggled a bit, the tight squirm of a white worm hooked and lowered into the depths. His breathing continued strained through a device, he now realized, that was no less than a lifeline to the world of light and movement, to a world that offered the smell of roses, the sound of birds… and the freedom to scratch. For Dvir Gottlieb there was only the unknown reality of a brain steeped in the dark tea of memory. He struggled to know.
“Dr. Gottlieb,” the whisper resonated through him like a stir of ill wind, the suddenness of a physical sensation causing him to jerk hard against his restraints. He listened first because he had to; then he listened because he wanted to.
“As you can see, if I may use that inappropriate term, you find yourself in a very unusual, though still quite comfortable situation,” the voice hissed. “Your present home is that of a sensory deprivation tank of a research facility, an instrument we have found to be most useful in finding answers to questions that are important to us. You are immersed in water that is kept constant at body temperature. You can hear me, and only me, through special ear buds. You are being nourished and having your waste filtered through the usual means. We are quite capable of keeping you suspended for a very long time, so long that time would no longer have meaning. So long that flesh will slough from the grip of your bones. We are fortunate to have unlimited use of this fine lab through a generous donation of one more faithful than yourself. You may be pleased to think of it as a mikvah, a cleansing bath of water and fire.”
Gottlieb’s mind seemed afloat, separate from his body. He pondered the imponderable. His mind sought clarity as his lips suckled the nipple of air that bound him to fragile existence. I think, therefore I am. Descartes settled his confusion, though not his fear.
The voice of his tormentor rose again through the depths, soft swells to his ear, which reminded him of the Quranic warning of the anonymous email:
When the fetters and the chains shall be on their necks, they shall be dragged into boiling water; then in the fire shall they be burned.
“We are called The One,” the voice continued. “We are children of the One God and are believers in the Torah, the Bible, and the Quran. Our duty is only to the One God, and the shared past of the father of our three faiths, Abraham. We have been instructed by the Most High to redeem a missing section of the Copper Scroll for which you have been searching these past years. We believe from our surveillance that you are close, quite close in fact, to that discovery.”
“Unfortunately,” the voice sighed, “there seems to be another, one not of belief in the One God, the God of our Fathers, who may well use this sacred treasure for an unacceptable purpose, for the work of ha-Satan, the Evil One. His minions have been observing you as well. Simply, we have decided that now was the best time to detain you, to interrogate you, to discover the extent of your research and to find the scroll that we both seek.”
There was a pause. Gottlieb’s breath was a tepid, hollow exhaust. Vomit rose and fell in his throat, a greasy barometer of terror.
“If you have understood what I said, please respond with three short breaths. Our monitors will translate the response.” The voice remained calm, assured. It was a voice with nothing but time.
The professor hesitated. He was unsure what course to take. Maybe if he failed to signal his breathing, they would hoist him out and check his ear buds for failure. He would prefer to be face-to-face. Maybe he could reason. Maybe… Gottlieb’s skin crawled with a buzzing irritation. His skin was vibrating, a fleshy fibrillation of only a few seconds, though it seized his neck and the soles of his feet in unpleasant cramps.
“That, doctor, was a brief demonstration of our resolve,” the voice whispered. “You are suspended in pure, highly distilled water. The electrical current, which I have just applied, was quite modest. I am now adding a measure of sodium chloride to your tank, which will greatly improve conductivity and provoke a more painful, persuasive result. I repeat the question. Can you hear me? Three short breaths, please.”
Dr. Dvir Gottlieb offered up three quick pants, a few of the last he now knew he would use on this earth. There would be no more negotiation beyond this answer. He could not allow his knowledge of the scroll to fall into the hands of those who would pervert its use or hide it from humanity, to then prolong the religious myths that had provoked so much more suffering than he would now endure. It was simply time, time to leave his secret to Jack and Sami…and to Banus. Perhaps they could do more.
“Now, doctor…” the voice intoned, fading quickly to nothingness with a violent distraction of pain as Dvir Gottlieb bit hard into his inner cheek, bursting the skin, the silicone and the cyanide capsule, which he had implanted for an occasion he had hoped never to know.
His last thoughts were of the final page in “Prayer Beads.” The artist had created a magnificent hilltop sunset with young Pini’s shape dark against a red splash of sun on an unknown horizon. Dvir felt himself slip away, his heart first seizing, then collapsing into Pini’s shadow, into the deep, black silhouette of forever.
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